The Pony Games
by Iced Perfection
Summary: Simply put, a Hunger Games/My Little Pony crossover. The Hunger Games takes two foals a year from the districts. Now, Catnips has the chance to fight back against the Capitol and prove she's more than a pawn in their pony games.


WELP. I'm not sure why I'm doing this. I think it has something to do with that shirt from WeLoveFine and the encouragement of the NC Bronies group. Eh.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who's thought of this. So I'm going to need everyone's help. What I did here was follow the first chapter fairly linearly. I want to know if this is good, or if I should switch things up a bit with my own stuff. I know it's not completely my idea, but I think it's an interesting idea to be explored, if ponies had to participate in something like the Hunger Games.

Names are being switched for more pony-like names. Katniss = Catnips; Prim = Honeysuckle; Buttercup = Marigold; Momma Everdeen = Momma Evergreen; Gale = Squall (I'm still not sure how I feel about this. But Tempest doesn't seem to fit, and Gale already seems pony-like for me...); Effie = Bauble; Madge = Sterling; Haymitch = Alfalfa (haha get it, hay?)

This is going to require some suspension of disbelief. If Applejack can hold a stick for s'mores, a pony can use a bow and arrow. Somehow.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

There is a chill in the air as I drift out of sleep. Princess Celestia hasn't raised the sun yet. My legs stretch out, seeking Pepper's warmth but finding only the rough hay mattress beneath me. She must have had bad dreams and gone to find our mother. Of course she did. This is the day of the Reaping.

I push myself up to rest on my forehooves, my back twisted so that my back legs stretch out to my left. . There's just enough light in the room to see them. My little sister, Honeysuckle, curled up next to her, cocooned in the warmth of my mother's body, their cheeks and necks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. Honey's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the flower for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Honey's flanks, guarding her, is her cat cat. With a mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash, he is probably the ugliest cat I've ever seen. Honey named him Marigold, insisting that his sullen, saturated yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or he at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers that I "accidentally" tried to drown him in a bucket when Honey brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with hunger, and crawling with fleas, he was a mess. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Honey had begged so hard, cried even, that I had to give in. It turned out to be alright. He's a born hunter, catching the vermin that sneak around the barn at night that would threaten our meager grain rations. That keeps him happy, and it keeps our store bins from being depleted as quickly. He ceases hissing. This is the closest we will get to friendship.

I slide off the hay mattress and onto the cold stone floor of our shack-like stable. My hooves make quiet clopping noises as I move across the floor to the rack where I keep my hunting cloak. It's made of a woven cloth that my father made a long time ago. My forage bag is hanging in its usual spot by the door, and I throw it over my neck to rest on my shoulder. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from the vermin, is a little ball of goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves—Honey's gift to me on Reaping Day. I carefully nudge the cheese into the outermost pocket of my bag just before I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crowded with coal miners on their way to work for the morning shift. Stallions and mares with hunched shoulders and swayed backs, many with untrimmed hooves who have long since stopped trying to clean the dirt and dust from around their frogs, clop along a dusty road to the mines. But not today. Today, the black cinder streets are empty. Shuttered windows that line the streets are closed. The Reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in—if you can.

Our home is on the edge of the Seam. I don't have far to go before reaching the Meadow, which is nothing like the meadows in our books, only consisting of a few weeds and sparse patches of grass. Between the Meadow and the woods is a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. It's supposed to be electrified at all times of the day, but we're lucky to get two or three a day, even with all the wild animals that live just outside the woods that could easily make off with a filly if given the chance. Therefore, it's simple to get past the fence most of the time, so long as there isn't a hum coming from the wire as I approach the fence. Right now, it's completely silent. I kneel to the ground and slide forward on my belly under a small stretch that has been loose for years.

Once I'm in the woods, I make a beeline for the hollow tree where I have stored my bow and sheath of arrows. Though the wild animals have been kept from District 12, they roam abundantly in the woods, and there is plenty of food here if you know where to find it. My father knew, and he was the one who taught me before he was killed in a mine accident, blown to pieces in the explosion. There was nothing left to bury. That happened when I was eleven—five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Trespassing in the woods is illegal and can be consequential in the form of severe penalties, and more people would probably do it if they had weapons. But most aren't brave enough to venture out with a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others I keep hidden in different locations around the woods. They're modified to fit hooves for those of us lacking any magic that could be used to hold such an object. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to those of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anypony is. In fact, they're our best customers.

Apples are often harvested in the fall, but always in sight of the Meadow, never far enough to risk harm.

"District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. I glance around quickly—no matter where you are, even in the middle of nowhere in the woods, you worry somepony might overhear you.

As a filly, I'd often scare my mother with what I would say about District 12, about the ponies who run our country, Panem, from the Capitol, the far-off jewel dazzling in the sun. I eventually learned to bite my tongue and hide my fears and insults behind a mask of indifference. Do my homework. Make small talk—polite—in the market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, the black market where we sell most of our game. I avoid topics like the Reaping, food shortages, or the Hunger Games. What if Honey were to repeat my words? Then where would we be?

In the woods is the only earth pony with whom I can be myself. Squall. I can feel myself relaxing as I gallop up the hills to our meeting place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. Berry bushes protects us from unwanted eyes. I smile at the thought of seeing him again. Squall says I never smile except when I'm in the woods.

I reach the peak of the hill, where I see Squall resting on the ground next to a blackberry bush that has bloomed with berries overnight. "Hey, Katniss," he says. My real name is Catnips, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it, so he thought I'd said Katniss—tubers that grow along the riverbank that often make a good compliment to a good roast.

"Look what I shot." Squall nudges a loaf of bread with his forehoof, and I notice it has an arrow shot through it. I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not flat, dense loaves that we make from our grain rations. I take a hold of the arrow in my teeth and pull it out, savoring the scent that comes wafting from the puncture hole.

"It's still warm," I say, marveling that Squall could have found something to trade for this. He must've had to go to the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost?"

"Just a squirrel. I think the old stallion was feeling sentimental this morning," replies Squall. "Even wished me luck."

I roll my eyes. "Honey left us cheese," I say, changing the subject, and pull open my satchel to reveal the small ball of rich cheese. Squall's eyes brighten at the mention.

"Thank you, Honey. We'll have a real feast!" His voice suddenly falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Bauble, the maniacally upbeat mare who arrives once a year to read out the names at the Reaping. "I almost forgot! 'Happy Hunger Games!'" He pulls a berry off a nearby bush with his mouth, staining his fur with the dark indigo juice, though he doesn't seem to care as he relishes the treat. He picks up another and tosses it in an arc toward me. "May the odds—"

I catch it in my mouth, and it explodes in a sweet and tart burst of juice. "—be _ever_ in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. You have to joke about it, because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so _affected_, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I study Squall as he pulls out a small knife and slices the bread. No longer a colt, but not yet a stallion. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin—we even have the same gray eyes. But we're not related, even though most of the miner families resemble each other in this way.

My mother and Honey look out of place in the Seam, with their light manes and light eyes. But that's because my mother came from a family merchants who caters to the Peacekeepers. They ran an apothecary in the nicer area of District 12—no one can afford the cost of a real doctor, so they turn to the apothecaries for healing. My father must have really loved him for her to leave her family for the seam.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the knife clutched between his teeth, bread trapped between his forehooves. The cheese spreads easily, and he rests a basil leaf on top of each. We settle back in a nook in the rocks, surrounded by the berries.

"We could do it, you know," Squall says suddenly, in a quiet voice.

"What?" I ask, startled.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Squall.

I don't know how to respond. It's a completely ridiculous proposition.

"If we didn't have so many foals," he adds quickly.

They're not our foals, of course. But they might as well be. Gale's two little colt brothers and a sister filly. Honey. And you may as well include our mothers, too, because how would they live without us?

"I never want to have foals," I say.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Squall.

"But you do." Something feels wrong about the conversation. How could he think about leaving? And this stuff about foals…there's nothing romantic between Squall and I.

There is a silence between us, and after we fish for a short time, we head back to trade our spoils in the Hob. Greasy Spoon, the old mare who keeps a big stewpot where a pony can get a hot bowl of stew if they can afford it, takes most of our game off our hooves, easy. We take the strawberries to the mayor's house, since we know he has a fondness for them. The mayor's daughter, Sterling, is in my grade in school, and she's supposed to be a snob, but she's all right.

Today, her drab school vest has been replaced with an expensive, frilly white dress, and her golden mane and tail have been done up with pretty pink ribbons. Reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," says Squall.

Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a compliment or if he's just being sarcastic. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Squall coolly. He spots a gold brooch at her neck. Beautifully crafted. Real gold. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve."

"It's not her fault," I say, trying to keep Squall from making a scene.

"No, it's no pony 's fault. Just the way it is," he replies.

Sterling's face has changed. She offers out the money for the berries in a small pouch she tosses to the ground in front of me. "Good luck, Catnips."

"You, too," I say, and the door closes.

What Squall is upset about is the tesserae. In exchange for extra entries, you can get tesserae, extra supplies of grain and oil. You can do this for each pony in your family. So, at the age of twelve, I had four entries. Once, and one for Mother, Honey, and myself. I have done this every year since then. And all the entries are cumulative. I have twenty entries this year. And Squall—Squall is eighteen, and has been supporting his family of five for seven years. He will have his name in forty-two times.

This is why somepony like Madge, who will never have a risk of needing a tessera, can set Squall off. The chance of her name being drawn is very, very small compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. It's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

Squall and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple loaves of good bread, greens, strawberries, salt, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," I say, trying to lighten the mood.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

At home, I find my mother and sister preparing for the Reaping, ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days, though its edges are a bit frayed with wear. Honey is in my first Reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on here, but my mother has managed to make it stay with pins. Even so, she's having a bit of trouble keeping the blouse tucked in.

I scrub off the dirt in a tub of warm water that sigs by the fireplace. My mother has set out one of her own blue dresses for me. She braids up my mane and tail, and in the cracked mirror above the mantle, I hardly recognize myself.

It's one o'clock, and we head for square. Attendance is mandatory unless you're dying. If you don't come, you'll be imprisoned.

The town square is one of the few places that can be pleasant in District 12. On days with good weather, it can have a holiday-like feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging off the buildings, there's an air of grimness.

Ponies file in the square silently, signing in one by one. Those eligible for the Reaping are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, oldest in front, youngest in the back, like Honey. Family members line up around the perimeter.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam. WE all exchange terse nods before focusing our attention to the stage that is set up in front of the Justice building. There are two large glass balls, one for the girls and one for the boys. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. Twenty of them have Catnips written on them in careful handwriting. Sterling's father, the mayor, and Bauble, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her dyed-pink mane and tail, with a spring green suit to match, exchange a look before glancing at the empty spot with concerned expressions.

The clock strikes two; the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year, the history of our country, Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes from the place that was once known as Equestria. He tells of the natural disasters that we overcame to restore a tiny, shining bit of hope called Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which, together through friendship, brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Moon Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth was destroyed. Once a year, as a reminder of the Moon Days, we were given the Hunger Games.

The rules are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one young mare and one young stallion, called tributes, to participate. The tributes will be imprisoned in an arena that could be anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of days or even weeks, months, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the foals from our districts, forcing them to kill each one another while we watch—this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy, how little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. "Look how we take your foals and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a hoof, we will destroy every last one of you. Just like we did in District Thirteen."

To make things worse, the Games are treated as a sort of festivity, a sporting event. The last tribute alive is showered with gifts and is granted a life of ease back home. Their district is treated especially well with foodstuffs like grain and sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," says the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had two. Only one is still alive. Alfalfa, a paunchy, middle-aged stallion, staggers onto the stage—drunk. The audience roars with laughter and applauds. He is visibly confused and tries to hug Bauble, who desperately tries to fend him off.

The mayor looks distressed. All of this is being televised—District 12 must look like a laughingstock on TV right now. He pulls the attention back to himself to introduce Bauble.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Bauble trots to the podium and gives her signature "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!" She babbles on about what an honor it is to be here, though everypony knows she's just waiting to get bumped up to a district whose victors aren't drunkards.

Suddenly, as I spot him from across the square, I am thinking of Squall and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are _not_ in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the colts. Maybe he's thinking the same thing about me, because his expression darkens and he turns away. _But there are still thousands of slips_, I want to tell him.

It's time for the drawing. "Ladies first!" Bauble crosses to the glass ball where the girls' names are. She reaches in, digs her hoof deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath—you can hear a pin drop. I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, not me, not me—

Bauble crosses back to the podium, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Honeysuckle.


End file.
